


Remblais

by Different_approach



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - No Cult, Anal Sex, Bisexual Male Character, Closeted Character, Facials, Hair-pulling, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, One Night Stands, Oral Sex, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-10 02:57:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15282060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Different_approach/pseuds/Different_approach
Summary: Jacob Seed isn’t gay. But sometimes, he sleeps with men. It just sort of happens.(Actually the premise of this AU is that Hudson, Pratt, and Nylander have...Millennial jobs that Jacob doesn’t understand; he sleeps with Pratt by accident, things get complicated from there)





	1. Chapter 1

There is definitely a rule somewhere in the company handbook about fucking tenants. There has to be. But, if asked about it, Jacob Seed plans on falling back on the fact he’s a new hire on the maintenance crew and they rushed him through the rules and regulation part, short staffed and everything.

He was supposed to be on the property to fix the dryer. Some sort of rattling noise going on with every cycle.

Instead, somehow, he’s ended up with the dark-haired, narrow hipped tenant, who he doesn’t even know the fucking _name_ of, crawled into his lap and raking his nails over Jacob’s shoulders like a goddamn demon, their cocks rubbing together while he moans into Jacob’s ear, “Fuck, fuck, you’re big, god.” And that’s flattering, really. But this isn’t how Jacob expected to spend his morning.

He knows the guy is J. Hudson, or S. Pratt, or C. Nylander, because those are the names on the lease. But Jacob has no fucking idea which one of the three he is. And at this point, with a skilled hand rolling a condom down his dick, it’s a little awkward to ask.

“Shit, shit, hold on,” the tenant reaches back towards the bed stand, fishing out a bottle of lube and drizzling it over his own fingers. The guy is utterly unashamed to just reach back and start fingering himself open, lifting his hips up off the mattress to get the angle right.

It’s 10am and this man Jacob doesn’t know the name of is trying to fucking _murder_ him.

“Okay, okay, I think, I think I’m ready. Here goes nothing,” he just never shuts up. Climbing back on top of Jacob, he shoves at Jacob’s shoulder until he leans back against the headboard. Jacob doesn’t have to do a fucking thing but watch as the guy holds his cock steady and starts to sink down like a goddamn champ. “Oh god,” he screws his eyes shut when he’s only about halfway down, “fucking huge.”

Jacob rests one hand on his hip, trying to help him steady himself. Maybe to calm his own nerves too, because now that he’s tight and hot around the first half of Jacob’s shaft, it’s taking a hell of a lot of self control to not just plow into him the rest of the way. Put the guy on his back and fuck into him hard as Jacob wants.

“Come on, Peaches,” as good a way of covering for the fact Jacob doesn’t know his fucking name as any, “thought you said you could take it?”

“You ass,” Peaches snaps, grabbing onto the headboard behind Jacob and bearing down, taking what’s left of Jacob’s cock in a single push. “I’m just enjoying myself.”

Jacob has got to give it to him, the guy has a fucking attitude. Any other circumstance, Jacob might tell a brat like him to scram. Not worth the effort to try and handle someone fighting him every step. Especially a _guy_ because Jacob’s not _gay_. But god, he’s already so deep inside that ass and right now he just wants to come.

With his grip on the headboard, Peaches starts riding Jacob with deliberate, steady movements. His arms shake a little at first, trying to get his bearings, but once he hits his rhythm, it’s almost as if Jacob isn’t really there. And Jacob is used to being the one to set the pace.

Jacob grabs hold of his hips, pressing his thumbs into the center of his flat stomach, dusted over with more dark hair than Jacob really expected from how he looked with his shirt on. Once he knows that Peaches can take it, he starts thrusting up and into him, their hips slapping together. And honest to fucking god, Peaches starts laughing, like there’s no else in the world he’d rather be.

“You’re pretty good, for your age,” Peaches bites, his hair flopping up as he slams down. “Knew you’d be good.”

“Could say the same of you,” Jacob counters. He moves his hands from Peaches’ hips to the small of his back, spreading his fingers wide to cover as much skin as possible. He’s warm under Jacob’s hands, flushed with exertion. There’s already sweat clinging to his chest. “Thought maybe you’d be to wet behind the ears.” The guy is at least twenty years younger than Jacob, maybe more. What the fuck is he doing?

At Jacob’s accusation, Peaches bursts into laughter again, coming down hard and grinding on Jacob’s dick. “Oh I’ve got plenty of experience, don’t you worry,” and even though he’s fucking _pretty_ the words aren’t. They’re taunting, mocking. And with them, Jacob wants to make sure that Peaches is ruined after this. That no fuck will ever be this good.

He gets a good grip on Peaches’ midsection, pulling him up just enough that he’s gonna feel it when Jacob fucks up into his already-sloppy hole.

“Oh my god,” Peaches gasps out, letting go of the headboard and grabbing onto Jacob’s hair with both fists instead.

Jacob grins like the cat who ate the canary, trying to push Peaches over the edge, “Touch yourself,” he almost sing-songs, “know you want to come on my dick.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, want to, yeah,” Peaches starts to plead. With Jacob’s hold on him, he can’t do much more than take it, but he’s drops his hands to Jacob’s shoulders and starts ripping at Jacob’s back for all it’s worth. Probably gonna leave red trails behind, mixed in with his old scars. Jacob doesn’t get as much sun as he used to, now that he’s working indoors.

Peaches has got to let go of Jacob to snake his hand in between their bodies, hastily jerking himself off. Doesn’t get more than a couple of pumps before he’s yelling out, curses and shit that’s not even words. God, is he always this fucking vocal? His roommates must hate him if he’s such a chatterbox.

He gets so fucking tight as he comes, coiled like a spring around Jacob’s cock. Jacob needs about a dozen more strokes before he’s emptying into the condom, heat heavy in his abdomen and Peaches milking him with that ass.

They’re both spent and sticky, Peaches climbing off of Jacob’s lap and stumbling out towards the hallway. But before he gets to the door, he shakes the mouse at his computer, dick and ass out, looking at the monitor. “Holy shit,” he curses, turning back to Jacob, “the fucking time. You got to get out, now.”

He’s still naked, scrambling around the bedroom grabbing up Jacob’s uniform and shoving it in his direction, “I got to be at work in like, six minutes.”

Which means Peaches isn’t getting to work on time at all. But he’s still frantically throwing on a shirt, still pantless and disoriented. Cursing under his breath, he finds boxers and pulls them on before sitting in his desk chair and starting to click around as if on autopilot. “What part of ‘leave’ did you not understand?” he hisses, pulling on a headset that manages to vaguely camouflage that his hair definitely reads “just been fucked.”

Jacob isn’t about to give him the privilege of even engaging in an argument, pulling on his uniform and heading out the bedroom door.

Peaches pulls down his headset just long enough to bark at Jacob to lock up before he goes, he’s got keys, right?

Jacob nods but Peaches has already turned back to his monitor, chirping out, “Hey guys, sorry I’m a little late. But hey, give me a second here and I’ll read out the resubs.”

It’s not until Jacob is outside the building, doors locked behind him, that he realizes he didn’t fix the fucking dryer.

—

He manages to pass off the fact the dryer at 3737 didn’t get resolved, on account of it needing a replacement seal around the door, and Jacob didn’t have one in the truck. It’s a good, plausible excuse to go back, and the seal is a cheap enough component no one will ask questions, he won’t be expected to bring the “broken” one back either. Now he’s just gotta hope that he can actually fix it when he goes tomorrow morning.

There’s nothing of any real concern in the afternoon, installing smoke detectors, a stove with the pilot out. Run of the mill bullshit that he’s got pocketed. His resume isn’t exactly stellar, big fucking gaps in it, and he’s fairly sure he only got the position because of his brother Joe’s good graces with the owner. But Jacob has no plans to hang on as dead weight. He might not strictly be _qualified_ in the literal sense. But he knows how to fix shit when it breaks.

His brother John texts him at three, asking Jacob to get Joseph off his case. Jacob doesn’t even know what John did, this time, but he probably deserves whatever Joe is trying to dish out. That doesn’t mean Jacob is gonna let Joe continue on harassing their little brother. He’s been on the receiving end of enough impromptu sermons to know why John is asking for backup.

Jacob texts John back saying he’ll talk to Joe when he sees him next. John sends back a couple of frowning faces and Jacob honestly has no fucking idea how John was supposed to be the smart one when he’s 32 and still acts like he’s 12.

The drive back out to the suburbs takes Jacob another hour after his shift ends and he doesn’t pull into the drive until six-fifteen. He grabs his mail from the box, nothing but junk, and sorts it carefully so that he doesn’t accumulate shit he doesn’t need.

He eats dinner in front of the television, showers right after that. The grime and sweat of the day melting off.

Oh god, it hits him like a ton of bricks that he had sex this morning, then went to his afternoon appointments. Could the tenants at those properties fucking smell “Peaches” on him? And the thought occurs to him, again, that he’s going to lose his fucking job. And his pastor brother is going to find out that Jacob lost the job that Joe orchestrated for him because he was balls deep in a very-male tenant instead of fixing the dryer like a normal fucking human being.

Fuck.

—

Jacob has to go back to 3737, Unit 2. And this time, he has to _fix the fucking dryer_.

He parks around the back of the building, leaving his truck in the alley, but walks around to use the front door. Heading up to the second floor, he steels himself to the potential embarrassment of seeing Peaches again. And fuck, how can he not even remember how they found themselves in bed? Was he fucking drugged?

Knocking, Jacob clenches his fist tight, trying not to flinch as the door opens. He exhales in relief when a young woman answers. She’s maybe a handful of years older than the guy from yesterday, if the faint lines around her eyes are any indication. She has the same dark hair and copper-warm skin as Peaches, but Jacob doesn’t think they’re related. Their features aren’t that similar.

“I’m Jacob, from Gate Management. About the dryer,” he explains.

“Ohhhh,” she drawls. And Jacob can already tell she has the same sort of backwoods accent as Peaches. Neither are from Atlanta. Hell, not even Georgia. But Jacob can’t even start to place it. Somewhere isolated. Tinged with standard Americana, but not quite right. “Jacob, about the dryer. Hey,” she turns her head back into the apartment. “Caleb! It’s _Jacob,_ about the _dryer_.”

“Shut the fuck up, Joey!” that’s unmistakably ‘Peaches.’ So, mystery solved, he’s ‘Caleb’ then?

Except the tall, lanky man who steps in next to ‘Joey’ at the doorway is a different person altogether. With floppy chestnut hair, a thick, but close cut beard, and flannel shirt, he almost looks like he stepped out of an advertisement for camping gear. If it weren’t for his Gumby-thin appendages, one of which he throws over Joey’s shoulders.

“Hello, Jacob about the dryer,” Caleb says, stretched out grin taking up half his face. “I’d show you the way, but I’m pretty sure Staci already gave you the grand tour.”

Staci. His name is Staci.

“You’re both the fucking worst!” Staci shouts from somewhere deeper in the apartment.

Jacob does his best to stay impassive, asking if it’s alright for him to come in? Both Joey and Caleb step aside to give him the space to haul in his gear inside. And while Jacob actually didn’t get a ‘grand tour’ of much more than Staci’s ass, he remembers where the dryer is.

Oh shit.

They _know._ Jacob was so disoriented in the doorway by the sudden rush of names and faces, that it hadn’t fully processed. But now the pieces fit. Joey Hudson and Caleb Nylander know that yesterday, instead of fixing the dryer, he had sex with Staci Pratt.

Jacob’s hands work with his brain not really being anywhere, let alone being able to form a cohesive thought. He starts unscrewing the front panel from the washer, before remembering to unplug the unit from the wall.

The whole thing is choked with lint and shit, and Jacob knows before he can get anything else done, he’ll have to vacuum the whole thing out. He’s got his mini shopvac in his kit, so at least he doesn’t have to ask the tenants for anything.

It’s just past 9am and Jacob fucking wishes that at least some of them will leave for work. While they’re not hovering around him, he can hear all three of them milling around the apartment, occasionally squawking at each other. And while Jacob is in no condition to try and eavesdrop on their conversations, he can distinctly make out all three voices. Staci’s roommates probably don’t worry about him talking too much because it turns out none of them ever fucking _shut up._

The chatter makes it hard to concentrate, but at least Jacob still has a solid five-to-ten more minutes of just trying to de-lint this piece of shit. He pulls big tuffs of the stuff out with his hands, dropping it unceremoniously on the floor. He’ll clean up once he gets the dryer working properly.

God, don’t any of them have places to be? It’s Wednesday morning and the 3737 apartment is an expensive one. Even if they’re splitting the rent three ways, each of them is probably throwing down more than a grand a month to live here. They’re not starving students. Jacob chances a look around. The dryer is in its own closet off the utilities, but he has a pretty good view back into the open living area. Their furniture looks like an eclectic mix of cheap Ikea shit and then a higher-end sofa, big fucking television with multiple black boxes plugged into it. Jacob doesn’t know if that’s normal for their ages, which he would place anywhere between twenty-five and thirty, now that he’s seen all three of them. John is really the only person he knows remotely that young, and his brother’s success at such a young age, coupled with his inheritance from the couple who eventually adopted him, but not the two older brothers, makes him the exception to basically every rule.

The point is, _someone_ here has to have a job. A good one. But from the chaos this morning, Jacob doesn’t know who that source of income is.

Peac-- _Staci Pratt_ finally emerges from where he was hiding, chewing noisily with the rest of his sandwich in one hand. Dressed in boxers, a tee, and nothing else, he just sort of stares at Jacob, like he’s expecting something. Jacob stares back for a second, saying nothing and going back to the goddamn dryer. With any luck, he’ll be out of here in another thirty minutes and he’ll never have to think about 3737 again.

Swallowing noisily, Pratt says, “Joey is making me apologize.”

“I’m just trying to work,” Jacob huffs. There’s not to apologize for. They fucked. It was ill-advised. But it’s also done and over. He had a good time, Pratt had a good time if his wailing was any indication. As long as there isn’t fallout, Jacob will be fine once this embarrassment is over.

“Okay, but,” Pratt rolls his eyes, “I was a douche to you and that’s pretty much my defining personality trait. But Joey says I need to try to be more considerate of other people and their feelings. So, I’m sorry.”

Jacob glares at him, wanting this to be over. And wasn’t Hudson the one _just_ mocking Jacob at the door? Where does she get the fucking nerve?

“Maybe she should do the same,” Jacob grumbles, turning back on his shopvac and hoping that Pratt gets the idea that this conversation is over.

But, no, because he just decides to shout over the noise instead.

“I know! Right!! I mean. My fault for telling her but she’s been fucking ragging on me since yesterday. And the worst part is she went and told Caleb right away and when the two of them team up I don’t stand a chance. Though, I guess Caleb and I do the same to her…”

It’s futile, but Jacob doesn’t even give Pratt as much as a hum of acknowledgement, focusing on sucking out the last of the lint. He brought the new seal with him, and the old one is pretty brittle anyway. So he may as well install it, even if it’s not technically broken yet.

“Anyway, I don’t think I told you yesterday, but my name is Pratt!” he shouts, still oblivious that Jacob wants him gone.

Eventually, there’s nothing left to vacuum and Jacob has to move on to replacing the seal. Which, unfortunately, doesn’t create a lot of noise.

“I didn’t get your name yesterday,” Pratt tries to egg him into saying something. “Though your name tag says ‘J. Seed,’ should I guess?”

And more than Pratt shutting up, he absolutely does not want him trying to guess his name. Because he’s sure to land on his brothers’ first. “Jacob,” he says, starting to rip out the old seal.

“Jacob, cool,” Pratt says, his mood suddenly changed, “Anyway! I guess I’ll let you finish. I gotta get ready for work anyway.”

Thank fucking god.

Except no one leaves the apartment. And twenty minutes later, when Jacob confirms that the dryer works properly now, there are still three people milling around, apparently engaged in nothing at all productive.

At least Hudson is at the kitchen table, a new-looking slim-line laptop open in front of her, typing furiously at the keys. Far quicker than Jacob can even comprehend. He’s gotta check in with one of the tenants that they’re satisfied with the repairs. And at the very least she isn’t Pratt.

“All done,” he says, nodding back towards the utility room.

She looks up from her screen, blinking in his direction. Bundled up in a long-sleeve shirt and sweats, she still has smudges from what must be yesterday’s mascara under her eyes. “Right, uh, I guess I’ll show you out.”

“No need,” Jacob says, “but does it sound alright now? It’s running empty, but you should let it finish out the cycle.”

Hudson frowns, getting up and heading back towards the closet. Jacob gets the barest glimpse of her screen. The text in her document keeps changing, even though she’s not in front of the computer anymore.

Reemerging a minute later, she tells Jacob that it sounds much better, thanks. She scratches her hair and says “see you soon,” though if Jacob can avoid it, he’s never fucking coming back.

—

John texts him a few more times before his shift ends. Jacob realizes that the only real reason he even has a phone is to appease John. So maybe, maybe he should send something back.

After more than twenty years of separation, Joe and John found Jacob, about four years back. Miserable, drunk, barely scraping by on handouts and what little the VA could offer him in terms of care. Joe had only contacted John a few weeks prior, claiming that God commanded him to bring his family back together.

John...was so different than what Jacob remembered. But then again, he was very young when Jacob first ended up in juvie. Didn’t see him before he left for the army either. Just a little bright-eyed tyke that looked at his brothers like they were his whole fucking world. Some of that wonder is still there, even though John is a grown man now. Jacob sees it in bits and flashes, even if most of the time John...Jacob doesn’t even know.

There’s something dark inside of John. Cold, detached, like he doesn’t inhabit his body quite right. And Jacob blames himself. If he had been a better man, this would have never happened. But he was a coward and a fool. And now that his brothers have saved him, he intends to return the favor, somehow.

The last of John’s messages say that he’s working late, but Jacob should come by the practice for dinner. John will order something to be delivered.

Jacob doesn’t mind the offer. It means hanging around the city until traffic dies down, and that he doesn’t have to cook once he gets home. He texts “OK” back to John and finishes out his shift.

—

John’s office is a whirlwind. Even though he’s sure to have the biggest space in the suite, it’s packed full of crap he doesn’t need. John holds onto everything, never letting go. Jacob isn’t even sure all the white bankers boxes full of printouts scattered across the expensive hardwood furniture even belong to John. Some are so yellowed with age that Jacob is certain they predate John even being able to _read_. But John is always trying to understand something. Find that thing no one else would have noticed. It’s probably what makes him so successful. So, despite his younger brother’s faults, Jacob isn’t going to question his methods when it comes to his work.

His love life on the other hand…

John sits on top of his crowded desk, socked feet up on the armrest of the chair meant for clients or aides to sit across from him, already digging into a box of noodles. He’s talking to himself around mouthfuls, barely registering Jacob’s arrival.

There are another couple of boxes of Chinese takeout on his desk, probably just for the two of them to share. John perks up once Jacob gets close, his eyes going wide and a tight smile curling around his most recent bite. He swallows quickly telling Jacob, “there’s rice too, but I figured you’d just want a box of meat,” he picks up one of the containers, seemingly knowing which one is which, and shoving it in Jacob’s direction.

Jacob takes the offered box, flipping it open. John moves his feet off the armrest so Jacob can sit down. Fishing through the plastic bag of napkins and utensils, Jacob finds a plastic fork. John has tried to teach him to use chopsticks, but he just can’t.

“Who did you dump now?” Jacob asks, raising one eyebrow before shoving a piece of beef into his mouth. This is always about John’s love-life. As much as Jacob does not want to know who his little brother is fucking, or who’s fucking him, he also knows that John can’t talk about this with Joe, who won’t even acknowledge that John also sleeps with men.

Like Jacob does.

No. They’re not the same. Jacob has slept with men a handful of times. Because it’s just happened. Once when he was 19. Then again around 30, right after his last discharge. Then yesterday. Fuck.

But that’s not the same as John. Who falls so quickly and ferociously in and out of love that it even gives Jacob whiplash and he’s just a spectator.

“Helen, you met her!” John exclaims.

And Jacob remembers her now. Pretty, all of John’s conquests are. John likes pretty things and pretty people and hopes that everything will last forever. Maybe a year or two older than John, with brown hair and green eyes and a Masters degree in Social Work. Some upper level administrator at a non-profit firm. On paper, a great match for John. They’d gone to a few high profile events together and John showed Jacob pictures of them in his condo dressed to the nines.

John groans, “I even introduced her to Joseph. I thought that he’d be _happy_. She was _nice_.” John always wants someone’s approval and honestly, the impulse makes Jacob nervous. The only thing that seems to temper John’s needy nature is that he’s ultimately pretty selfish. And it’s like a great big war which of his personality flaws is about to win out.

“Didn’t like her?” Jacob offers. John is going to do most of the talking, Jacob just needs to prompt him occasionally. Then he can go right back down to scarfing down his dinner.

“Joseph _never_ likes them.” He bites his bottom lip, “he likes everyone except the person that I love…”

“To be fair,” Jacob chides, “you’re in love with someone else every week.”

“Jacob,” John frowns, “I dated her for four months.”

And immediately Jacob feels suitably chastised. That’s a long time for John to stay stuck on one person. He probably did really like her, “What went wrong?”

“I don’t know,” John admits. And maybe he doesn’t. “Just grew apart, I guess.”

Jacob hums like he understands, though he really doesn’t. It’s not like he has better experiences to fall back on. At least he understands the difference between a one-night-stand and a soulmate. A concept John appears to find difficult to grasp. But at Jacob’s age, finding women interested in a quick tumble and little else is becoming an increasingly tricky proposition. At least once, he was pretty convinced after the fact that he had slept with someone else’s wife. And he’s not keen on repeating that mistake.

There’s a knock at John’s door and he shouts at them to come in. Most of the staff was already gone for the evening when Jacob came into the suite. But he recognizes Rachel in the doorway, her arms laden with reports. Jacob gets up to help her. She’s a wisp of a girl, dressed in jean shorts and an oversized shirt that covers her arms. Well, she’s not that young, really. Maybe twenty-four? She’s one of Joe’s charity cases that he’s managed to pawn off onto John.

“Can I go home now?” she huffs, once Jacob has the folders securely in his hands.

“Don’t know,” John rolls his eyes, “when did you get in this morning?”

“‘Morning’ is a relative term,” she says, making scarequotes with her fingers. “I don’t know, like noon-ish…”

“Oh my god,” John groans.

Rachel smiles and laughs, clearly delighting in John’s frustrations.

Jacob has seen them interact a handful of times. He doesn’t think John actually dislikes the girl. But they grate on each other for sure. In some ways, they might be too-alike.

“Just go, I guess,” John waves her off.

She says goodbye to Jacob and blows John a kiss before heading out, closing the door shut behind her.

“She doesn’t even do anything here,” John grumbles. “I guess that’s not a problem. But I feel like I’m letting Joseph down.”

Ah, of course.

—

It’s late by the time Jacob gets back out to the suburbs. The neighborhood he lives in is unincorporated, so there’s no streetlights as he drives in. He barely catches his headlights turning the deer’s eyes white before he slams on the breaks. The deer stays frozen, staring back at him with terrified, dumb impunity. Jacob rolls down his window to shout at it to move. And at his voice, it scampers off to the other side of the street, disappearing beyond the tree line.

Once he’s home, he tosses his keys, wallet, and phone onto the table by the door. His phone lights up on impact, and he sees two texts from a number. John went through and assigned names to all of Jacob’s contacts awhile ago, but this number isn’t one of them.

 _hey j.seed_  
_its pratt_

How did that brat even get Jacob’s number? From someone at Gate? They have his listing, obviously. Are phone books still a thing? Online somehow? Jacob doesn’t really use the internet all that much. He orders stuff sometime, reads the news. He has a laptop (also from John) but he doesn’t go in for the social network stuff. Both John and Joseph do, though. Their jobs sort of require it.

Jacob doesn’t reply. Though remaining silent did a whole hell of nothing to deter Pratt earlier today. And sure enough, another text comes through before Jacob can even come up with a way to politely tell the guy to back the fuck off.

_you left a bunch of tools in my apartment_

Godfucking damnit.

Sure enough, when Jacob checks his kit, he’s missing two screwdrivers and his hose brush. None of them are expensive and he considers for a minute just buying new ones in the morning before his shift starts, rather than have to go back to 3737. But Pratt seems like just the kind of shit who will call Gate directly if Jacob doesn’t answer, so he texts back:

_how early can I pick them up in the morning?_

_could get them now if you wanted_

_it’s 9:30_

_okay, I can be up whenever_

_7:30?_

_see you then_

Jacob turns off his phone before Pratt gets the bright idea to send him anything else while he’s at it.


	2. Chapter 2

Instead of knocking at the door, Jacob sends a text to Pratt at 7:28 that he’s outside waiting. He doesn’t want to wake Pratt’s roommates early, and he’s technically never supposed to enter a unit before nine. But his first appointment this morning is clear across the city and he doesn’t want to try and fit in picking up his tools later in the day.

He waits five minutes, with no answer, before starting to send another text. But before he can finish typing it out, the door cracks open, Pratt dressed in a loose, sleeveless shirt and boxers, his loosely curly hair a mess at all angles. 

Jacob expects the chatterbox to try and talk his ear off, or even make an attempt to get Jacob to come inside. Pratt seems like the needy type, which is exactly what Jacob doesn’t want in his life. He never has had the patience for it. He’s barely got the time for his own fucking problems.

But Pratt doesn’t say anything. Bleary-eyed, he just sort of shoves Jacob’s things in the general direction of Jacob’s chest. His hair smells a little like wood-smoke, and his breath like he’s been laying in a pool of vodka. Not flattering by any stretch.

He closes the door in Jacob’s face without a word.

Right. This is exactly what Jacob wanted.

—

In the days that follow, Jacob manages to forget about Staci Pratt. Not entirely, not like amnesia, but the gentle type of forgetfulness that lets him lose track of things, people, events. Nothing comes in terms of consequences at his job, so he can only assume that no one at Gate knows. And once that immediate anxiety has passed, there’s nothing left to bother him

Sleeping with men is just something that happens to Jacob, sometimes. Not through any deliberate action of his own. Pratt isn’t any different in that regard.

Work tires him out enough that after he gets home, eats, and showers, he doesn’t have much time for self-reflection. John texts him multiple times a day, but none of what he says is important. Jacob is careful to respond at least once every 24 hours, lest John spin himself into a panic that he’s being deliberately ignored. Or something terrible has befallen Jacob. He’d probably find the first scenario more upsetting.

Joe calls him once, just as he’s getting home, about a week after the incident at 3737. He asks Jacob how the new job is going, if he’s settling in alright? While Jacob had been earning income before, it was sporadic. Weeks of back-breaking labor when he’d try to amass as much money as possible to prepare for months of nothing. He’d managed to keep up with his mortgage, barely. It was his body that was giving out. His back and his knees and this funny feeling in his ribs from having to push himself hard when he could find manual labor jobs. Joseph had gotten him employment at Gate in the hopes that the work would be easier on Jacob, physically and mentally. He needed something stable. 

Jacob tells Joe he’s doing fine. The work is agreeable enough. He thinks he’s good at it. Joe asks if Jacob might come to the church on Sunday? He has missed seeing Jacob.

Even though it won’t be enough to appease Joseph, Jacob gives a noncommittal answer about the drive into the city on a weekend. Joe lives in the suburbs too, but preaches at a storefront church in a less than upstanding part of town. He’s already got the flock, and the connections, to move into someplace bigger. But apparently there are some hangups about permits John still has people sorting through.

Joe hooks him by telling Jacob that John will be there as well. While he still doesn’t say “yes” outright, Jacob will check with John. If that’s the case, maybe he will go after all. John has been antsier around Joe as of late. And Jacob means to find out what has his younger brother so on edge.

Wrapping up their conversation, Jacob tells his brother goodnight and hangs up. He plugs his phone into the charger next to his laptop, not bothering to turn it off.

—

John confirms via text that he’s going to Joe’s sermon on Sunday, then excitedly asks if Jacob is coming too. Jacob has a hell of a time saying ‘no’ to him, when it’s not something likely to get John fucking killed.

By the time Sunday actually comes around, Jacob still can’t shake the exhaustion climbing up his back, dragging him down like a heavy weight. But he pours himself into his truck and makes the trek back out to the city. He affords himself a single cigarette on the way there to calm his nerves. Pulling into the strip-mall parking lot, Jacob shoves a stick of gum in his mouth in a futile attempt to cover up the scent of smoke with mint. 

The windows to Joe’s storefront are decorated with brightly colored acrylic paints. Some of the teenaged members of the church depicting biblical scenes in their cartoon-y styles. From the looks of it, at least four different kids worked on the mural, their sense of line and form and color all a little different. Makes the windows look messy in a way. But there’s a charm to it as well.

Inside, rows of metal folding chairs line the tiled floor, eight rows deep and ten seats across on either side of the central aisle. Jacob knows from the last time he was here that there won’t be enough seating for everyone. Joe really pushes the limits of the fire code. 

The service doesn’t start for another forty-five minutes, but there are already faithful gathered into little groupings across the room. People come from all walks of life to hear Joe speak. So, Jacob admits that his brother might be good at what he does. Even if Jacob has never really been persuaded that there is salvation for him in the end times sure to come.

He doesn’t believe in sin, exactly. But Jacob knows he’s not a good man. So, if it turns out Joe is right and he’s wrong, he’s resigned himself to damnation. But Jacob doesn’t think an insincere heart will get him any further. So he doesn’t bother to pretend.

Joseph is nowhere to be seen, probably somewhere in the back getting ready for his big entrance. Though Jacob is fairly sure none of the parishioners recognize him as Joseph’s brother, they also don’t question him as he disappears behind the curtain at the front of the room to head back into the office behind the hastily erected stage.

Jacob knocks on the door out of politeness, telling Joseph who it is and waiting before opening. Sure enough, Joe is pacing around the room, sulfur colored sunglasses on and his shirt off, because he has a particular kind of aesthetic when he preaches. Another thing that Jacob doesn’t get.

“Brother, you came,” Joe opens up his arms to hug him, and Jacob returns it weakly. Though he spent more years trying to protect Joe than he ever did John, he’s always felt more distance between himself and the middle son. Or maybe distance isn’t the right word. A barricade, perhaps. Because while Jacob can recognize the darkness, the pain in John, he doesn’t have the vocabulary to comprehend the disease he feels radiating from Joseph. Joseph, who Jacob protected as long as he could, as best as he could. Until they were both on the cusp of adulthood. Was Jacob really so inept, that he accomplished nothing?

Jacob leans against the side of Joe’s desk while he finishes running through his sermon, becoming more animated as the minutes tick by. Five minutes before he’s set to start, John rushes in, his cheeks pinked and smile bright. He hugs Jacob first, then Joe, apologizing for his lateness. Really, out of his control.

Joe pats John on the head like he’s a puppy. And Jacob winces, because he knows he’s guilty of the same. John is grown, but both of them missed so much, that they forget. And John has enough bad habits as it is. Being babied doesn’t help him, but Jacob finds it hard to stop.

Jacob would just as well wait in the office for the hour it’ll take for Joe to finish speaking to his congregation. But John wants to _see_. John _believes_. And maybe that’s a good thing. While Jacob wasn’t there, John has told him about the kind of man he was before Joe’s intervention in his life, successful, yes, influential, yes, a wunderkind for the ages. But turning to sex and drugs and the adrenaline that comes from trying to off yourself in the most extravagant of ways. Always screaming, _yes, more_. 

Now, though, John tries to fill himself with lovers who he doesn’t really love. Stuffing himself full of Joe’s rhetoric. And Jacob still worries that John has only traded one set of vices for another.

But really, Jacob is no better.

Jacob and John end up standing crammed in against the east-facing wall to watch Joe speak, John standing just in front of Jacob because he’s still short enough that Jacob can easily see over his brother’s head. All the chairs are taken, and most of the floor space too. John hangs on every word, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet, letting Joe’s promise of a better world to come soothe the part of him that wants to be occupied by something other than himself.

Jacob listens too. And admits that maybe, he would like to believe. But it’s always gonna be beyond his grasp. 

Afterwards, Joe is tied up speaking with his flock on more personal terms, leaving John and Jacob to wait around for the crowd to die down. At least some seats open up, and they can sit while John plays on his phone and Jacob does absolutely nothing but lean back in his folding chair, scanning the room and trying to find anything of interest.

John has one earphone in, watching something on his phone. Usually, Jacob finds him playing games or scrolling through his social media feeds faster than Jacob could even consider processing what’s passing by. It’s strange to see him so focused for once. But Jacob can’t make out what he’s watching.

By the time Joe is finished, it’s one-thirty and Jacob is starving. They quickly settle on the sandwich shop across the street and that’s fine with Jacob, who can always appreciate cheap and easy.

The little yellow-walled shop has nowhere to sit down, so they end up eating out of the back of Jacob’s truck in the parking lot in front of Joe’s church, the rear hatch pulled down so John can sit and the other two can at least put down their drinks and an entire brown bag full of fries.

And everything feels _normal_ , even though Jacob already has a sinking feeling this can’t last. Like somehow, they were all built wrong for this world. And now the seams are bursting under the strain of keeping them aloft.

John stretches his hands over his head, mumbling that he has to get back to the office. It’s _Sunday_ , so it seems ridiculous, but Jacob doesn’t really have a keen idea of how much work John actually takes on. 

As if out of nowhere, Rachel materializes in the corner of Jacob’s vision, crossing the parking lot with her hands shoved into the pockets of her checkered sundress, white-framed sunglasses perched on the top of her head. He realizes now that she was actually at the sermon earlier, seated in the crowd. Jacob just doesn’t know her well enough to recognize the back of her head, but the dress is vaguely familiar from the crowd. And she’s got this little crossbody bag on with a giant sunflower on the flap. 

She shoves her shoulder into John’s side, smiling and saying she’s ready to go when John is. When Joe looks at her, she averts her eyes, looking at her banged-up flats instead, “Hello Father Joseph,” she doesn’t bother greeting Jacob.

Joe smiles at her, asks her how she’s been since they last saw each other? She looks up to answer him, her jaw tight. Jacob can’t tell if it’s admiration or fear or some of both. 

“Good, I’ve been good. Thank you. I’m glad I’m able to help people, now.”

John must be willfully ignorant of how ill-at-ease she is, laughing and calling her a bothersome kid. They’re not that far apart in age, though, all things considered. At least his jab gets her to loosen up at little and she smacks him lightly with her purse. 

John hands her the keys to his BMW and tells her he’ll be there in a second. She takes them, threatening to drive away without John. John hugs Joe first, then Jacob, before turning to head back to his car, parked further back towards the street. Jacob gathers up what’s left of their lunch, walking with Joe back towards the church to throw it in the bin. 

Joe frowns at him as they say their goodbyes, urging him to come to services more often. If only so they can see each other. Jacob knows that’s not it. At least, not entirely. It bothers Joe, on some level, that Jacob isn’t particularly concerned with the status of his soul.

\--

Jacob about loses his breakfast when he gets his assignments for the day. Fucking 3737 is on the list. But the second column says “unit 4” and he manages to breathe a little easier. He’s unlikely to run into Pratt, who never seems to fucking leave his apartment. At least as far as Jacob could tell.

He makes the drive out, windows open because the AC in his truck has been finicky for awhile now. Next month he’ll probably have enough saved up to get it looked at. He could try and do it himself. But besides his house, his truck is really his only other asset. And he’d rather a professional take care of it than potentially botch it himself. Especially now that he has the income to do so. 

Parking around back in the alley, he grabs his toolkit and walks to the front of the building. The painting crews just finished up in unit 4, so Jacob is here to check that the appliances have been installed correctly, hook back up what the painters couldn’t manage. Fairly routine stuff. Once Jacob signs off, the leasing agents can start showing the property to potential renters.

Before he can get inside, the glass doors at the front of the building swing open. Jacob hears them before he sees them. Too loud and bright, talking faster than Jacob can really make sense of anything they say. Fuck.

Nylander and Pratt come barreling through side by side. Pratt looks comically short next to Nylander, though Jacob would put him at about 5’11”. They’re dressed in near-matching khaki cargo shorts and hideously ugly button down shirts, bright colors with blurry patterns.

Nylander has a fancy camera in one hand, his other arm slung awkwardly around Pratt’s shoulders. Neither seem to notice Jacob, who stands aside to let them pass. 

If Pratt sees Jacob standing there, he doesn’t give any indication. Jacob doesn’t breathe until they disappear down the sidewalk. 

The install upstairs goes fine. Jacob is done within two hours and calls back to the main office to say that the unit is ready for showing now. Nancy repeats the address back to him to make sure they have the right property, then hangs up when they’re done. 

On his way back out, Nylander and Pratt are heading in. This time, their clothes, arms, faces, are smeared with bright paint. It’s in their hair too, making Pratt’s look even messier than before, if possible. They’re less engrossed in each other than they were leaving. Nylander is smiling, but Pratt wears the barest hint of a scowl. Without having each other as a distraction, they actually notice Jacob.

Nylander laughs, actually laughs. And Pratt’s mouth opens, before turning his head away, pushing past Jacob and hurrying inside the building.

Jacob freezes, though inside his head the instinctual part of his brain tells him to _run_. Just fucking book it. But he’s already made too many mistakes listening to that part of himself to start moving.

Nylander somehow manages to compose himself, smacking the center of his chest until he coughs. There are tears in his eyes from laughing.

Jacob frowns, “It’s not funny.”

“Oh!’ Nylander coughs again, “You don’t know the half of it. It’s fucking hilarious. God, fuck.”

Almost making the mistake of asking Nylander to clue him in on what he doesn’t know, Jacob finally manages to find his feet, heading back towards the sidewalk so he can get around to the alley and into his truck. 

He rests his forehead against the wheel, ignition on, and tries to breathe. Clearing his airways and his head. Pratt’s reactions don’t make any fucking sense. Then again, Jacob doesn’t want to take the time to try and make sense of them. 

Once his heart rate steadies, he puts the truck into drive, pulling out to head to his next appointment.

\--

Jacob finds himself in John’s office, again, but this time he’s the one bringing dinner. Because he supposes, as the older brother, it’s really his responsibility. Even if John amassed more wealth by twenty-four than Jacob has even seen in his entire life. 

John texted him to get something for Rachel too, and that she doesn’t eat meat. So, just figure something out. Apparently she’s not picky otherwise. 

_you can just get her an entire box of fries or something_ he sends.

Jacob ends up picking sandwiches from a deli that would normally be out of the price range of what he would get for himself. But seems like exactly the kind of hipster bullshit John and maybe Rachel would like. He could barely say the names of each sandwich with a straight face, and by the end, he was just listing ingredients and hoping that the kid behind the counter could figure out which one he meant.

Rachel starts plowing into her food and Jacob figures he at least got her order right. Something with avocado and cheese and sprouts and shit. John’s was just “the one with bacon” because he knows John likes bacon. So that seemed right too.

While he’s eating, John accidentally swipes across his keyboard and whatever he had paused on his screen starts playing. Rachel, who is seated on the clinet’s side of John’s desk, next to Jacob, nearly spits out a mouth full of rabbit food in laughter.

“Oh my god,” she cackles, standing up and grabbing the top of John’s monitor to swivel it around.

John lashes out at her, trying to bat her hand away before she can turn the screen. But she’s quicker than he is and gets it tilted just enough that Jacob gets an eyeful of what John was watching before dinner. 

Jacob drops half of his overpriced turkey sandwich in his lap.

Fuck.

It’s Caleb Nylander, with his too-long arms and too-symmetrical face. He has on that ugly shirt that Jacob saw him wearing three days ago with Pratt. Pratt yells something from off-camera before John gives up on wrangling his screen back and just hurries to close out the window instead.

“Fucking Christ, Rachel,” John fumes. “You’re the worst.”

She laughs again, retorting, “You realize his audience is like, thirsty fifteen-year-old girls, right? Oh,” she feigns surprise, “I guess that makes sense then.”

They’re both too occupied in each other to pay Jacob any notice as he tries to fish tomato out of his lap. 

“Then how do _you_ know who he is. Oh,” John mocks, “I guess that makes sense then.”

“Hey Jacob,” Rachel fixates his attention on him, “What’s it like knowing that your broth--wait...what is wrong with you?” She’s entirely too observant. If Jacob didn’t know better, and maybe he doesn’t, she might be Joe’s clever plan to spy on John. 

“Nothing,” Jacob deadpans, tossing loose turkey onto the paper wrapper sitting on John’s desk.

“No, no, no,” she interjects, “you’re acting weird.” Her eyes narrow. “You know him too. Oh my god!” she jumps up out of her seat, “you’ve both got hard-ons for some YouTuber. This is the best day of my _life_.”

“I’m not gay,” Jacob chokes, wrapping up the remainder of his sandwich. He’s not hungry anymore. And Nylander is a what?

“But you!” she swings her finger accusatorially at John, “You are.”

“Jesus Christ, Rachel,” he finally manages to turn his monitor back around. “Yeah, okay, he’s fucking hot. Are you happy now? He’s a grown man, I’m a grown man, I can have whatever lurid fantasies I want, okay?”

Sitting back down, she asks, “Want to tell me them in excruciating detail later, I mean, when your brother isn’t here?”

John grumbles, but doesn’t say no. 

“Wait,” she perks up again, “so maybe you don’t want to suck his dick, but you do recognize him, right Jacob?” It was clearly too much to ask that she would forget all about Jacob’s reaction to seeing Nylander on screen.

“Who is he?” Jacob tries to deflect, reaching for his sandwich before realizing he decimated it when he tried to roll it back up in the brown wax paper.

John humors him, because Rachel clearly won’t, “Caleb Nylander, he’s a vlogger with,” John clicks around, opening back up the window and checking something on the screen, “two point one million subscribers. He and his friends moved to Atlanta from a mountain town out west about a year back, after Caleb’s channel really took off.”

“That...what?” Jacob isn’t sure he understood a word of that. Other than the ‘mountain town’ bit that Jacob sort of suspected from their accents.

“He makes videos about his life and posts them to YouTube,” Rachel clarifies. “A lot of people watch him just...do stuff? I guess. I’ve seen some of his videos, but most of them aren’t that interesting unless you want him to rail you or something.”

“So he makes videos about what?” Jacob is sort of coming around, maybe.

“Just...stuff,” John shrugs, “a lot of it over the last year has just been him and his roommates adjusting to life here. Apparently, wherever they came from has a population of approximately fourteen people. Hope County or something like that?”

Jacob nods, at least he’s gotten John and Rachel off the path that leads to him spilling information about how he recognizes Nylander.

“So, about you knowing him?” Rachel says.

Fuck.

Trying to cover it up at this point just makes him seem more suspicious. And the simple explanation is innocent enough, “I think I repaired the dryer in his apartment is all. He looked familiar.”

John’s eyes go a little wide, “So wait, you met him?”

Oh, god. Not this. 

“Only briefly. I was there to fix the dryer, that was it.”

“Did you meet Joey and Staci too?” Rachel asks, giving away that maybe she’s seen more than ‘a couple’ of Nylander’s videos, if she knows the names of his roommates.

“Uh, yeah. They were there too.” He can only hope that his face isn’t an embarrassing shade of red because he is absolutely not telling them what happened at 3737. 

Without being prompted, John explains, “Staci Pratt is a Twitch streamer and Joey Hudson writes for a bunch of online publications. They’re both pretty successful in their own right. Nowhere near the exposure of Caleb. But they’re in his videos sometimes.”

Fuck, Jacob shouldn’t bite. But he’s maybe, slightly interested in whatever that is that John said Pratt does for a living, “Twitch?”

“Mmm,” John hums, “he plays video games, first person shooters, mostly. He’s pretty good. Not like, e-sports competitive or anything. At least that’s what he said in the Q&A video he and Joey did with Caleb. But, mostly, being successful is about being good enough and having, you know,” John waves his hand, “charisma.”

‘Charismatic’ isn’t high oh the list of adjectives Jacob would use for Pratt. But then again, somehow he got Jacob into bed without Jacob protesting. So maybe he is. Mostly though, in the interactions that they’ve had, well, the interactions that haven’t involved Jacob’s dick up Pratt’s ass, he’s come across as slightly nervous and too talkative for his own good. Like he hates silences dragging on too long. 

“Oh,” Jacob responds.

“Joey is really pretty, isn’t she?” Rachel tries to bait him. Jacob isn’t sure what kind of answer she’s fishing for.

“Uh, I guess?”

John rolls his eyes, “they all are good looking. I mean, that’s like, requirement number one for internet microcelebrity. You have to be hot.”

“Okay, but we’re not talking about everyone on the internet right now, John, we’re talking about Joey Hudson and if her hair is really that shiny.”

As far as Jacob is concerned, they’re not talking about anything related to 3737 anymore.

“Wait, no,” John shakes his head, “more importantly, what do you think are the chances of you being able to introduce me to Caleb?”

At that point, Jacob can’t do anything but stand up, and walk as calmly as he can from the room.

\--

John, predictably, starts texting Jacob repeatedly, not even waiting until he’s finished driving home. A mix of apologies and pleading, but he really, really wants the opportunity to meet Caleb Nylander in person. And if Jacob could maaaaybe facilitate that meeting just a little bit, John would be so, so grateful. Jacob grits his teeth, because he’s not accustomed to denying John anything at this point. But the risk is just too high. 

He texts John back, _STOP_ , and mercifully, John lays off. At least for the time being.

\--

Gate calls him in the morning, informing him not to come in, Jacob’s stomach drops out, until Nancy explains there’s not enough appointments to go around today. He should be available on-call if they need him, but there’s no schedule for him to pick up.

Jacob takes the call as an ill omen, even if he technically hasn’t been let go. If there isn’t enough work to justify his inclusion on the payroll, he’s going to be cut, Joe’s brother or not.

He’s already awake, so he makes a pot of coffee, scrambles up some eggs. Manages to get half-way through breakfast before John texts him again. At least, this time, it’s not more pleading to be introduced to Nylander. Instead, it’s a link.

_watch is please? And tell me you don’t think he’d be good for me?_

Jacob groans, clicking on the link that takes him directly to YouTube. But he can’t watch video for shit on his phone. The screen is too small. He has no idea how John does it all the time.

Nylander’s chatty voice comes through the tinny speaker on his phone while Jacob turns on his laptop. After some fumbling, he manages to mute the video on his phone, but has no idea how to get the video from his messages to his computer. He ends up typing the name of the video “Q+A Part 2” and “Caleb Nylander” into the search bar on YouTube, looking back and forth from his phone back to his laptop to make sure he picks the result that John carefully curated for him.

The video itself is about fifteen minutes long, and starts with a joke from Hudson about how Nylander should call the video “Part 2” even though it’s the first part of their conversation.

All three of them are sprawled out on the big couch that Jacob recognizes from the living room of their shared apartment, the camera mounted in front of them. There are a couple of quick cuts after the joke about the title, Nylander, Hudson, and Pratt switching around positions on the couch until they land with Caleb on one side, Hudson on the other with her feet tucked under her ass, and Pratt in the center, leaning back with one of his arms thrown over the backrest. 

They’re all dressed in a way that simultaneously screams urban hipster and authenticity detached-from-civilization mountain kids. None of them have shoes on and Hudson’s socks don’t match. Nylander and Hudson wear red flannels, Pratt’s is green and black, pulling too tightly across his chest. It looks faded, like he’s had it for a long time, maybe bought it was he was a little scrawnier than he is now.

Nylander reads questions off his phone and the three of them take turns answering. The first question is about how the three of them met. They explain, talking over each other, that Nylander and Pratt went to school together in Hope County. Hudson is a few years older, but there weren’t that many kids, so it’s not like they were strictly segregated by age in their free time or anything. Besides, she liked being able to boss the two of them around. 

“Her parents let her get airsoft rifles!” Pratt interjects, “of _course_ we wanted to be her friend.”

Other than that, Jacob learns that Pratt’s favorite food is steak and he likes to fish, but doesn’t really hunt. Nylander gives him shit about that, before Hudson barks in that they’ve both always been a better shot than Nylander and he’s just jealous. Pratt streams three times a week for now, but might take it up to four now that he’s not working part-time anymore. He’d gone to college too, for criminal justice, but while he finished, he didn’t have it in him by the end to be a cop. 

Jacob realizes eight minutes in that John sent him the video with the intention of appraising Nylander, but he can’t remember a fucking thing that he’s said. Too focused on fucking Staci Pratt and the way he nervously pulls at his hair and laughs when the next question is what each of them likes in a relationship.

Jacob stops the video, because he doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t want to hear Pratt’s answer. He doesn’t care. But he texts back to John, _he seems a little young for you,_ trying not to wince at the hypocrisy of his comment.


	3. Chapter 3

Except Jacob does end up watching the end of the video. Because the next evening, when he gets home, he forgets that it’s still open on his laptop and when he smashes the spacebar to get the screen to wake up the video starts playing again.

“I think Joey should answer first,” on-screen Pratt deflects.

She rolls her eyes, “it’s not a hard question I mean. I look for honesty, humor, and someone who is dependable. That seems like a basic set of requirements for someone you’re thinking about spending your life with. It also pretty definitively excludes you two assholes.”

Nylander puts his hand over his heart as if he’s been wounded deeply, “I’ll have you know I’m an excellent boyfriend. Also you forgot to say ‘tits.’”

“Tits are not an absolute requirement,” Hudson corrects.

“You still like them,” Pratt chimes in.

Hudson laughs, “Okay, but who doesn’t?”

At that, they all start giggling. The whole video is trite, obviously staged to appeal to a certain audience. And John and Rachel were clearly right, all three are attractive, and try to cultivate an image of availability. Their answers are generic in a way. As if anyone could potentially be their ideal partner, providing they clear some very basic thresholds. 

Nylander mentions liking someone who he can _take care of_ in a very pointed manner. That he likes to feel _needed_. And that leaves a sour feeling in Jacob’s stomach because it is definitely a statement John would have latched onto right away.

It seems like Pratt might be off the hook, before Hudson needles him in the side, saying it’s his turn to go. His answer is oddly flippant, given how embarrassed he seemed before, and Jacob realizes that his mercurial changes in mood aren’t limited to his interactions with Jacob. He’s just a moody brat.

“I honestly don’t care, as long as they’re hot.”

“That’s not an answer!” Nylander barks.

“It’s _my_ answer. I’m shallow,” Pratt concludes.

Okay, so that explains why he apparently wanted nothing at all to do with Jacob, after he satisfied whatever urge came over him that morning they fucked.

The video wraps up after a couple more heated exchanges about childhood pets (Hudson had a horse?) and long-dead drama (Pratt and Nylander made an ill-advised attempt to hook up once, which ended in Nylander getting sick all over Pratt’s sneakers). And maybe, just maybe, Jacob bristles at that last one. Because as obvious as it is that Pratt and Nylander are close, they’d be terrible for each other. Someone like Pratt needs a steadier hand, someone to temper his capricious moods, rather than feed into them.

Not like Jacob cares.

The video runs out and when Jacob doesn’t close the browser window, another one of Nylander’s videos starts on autoplay. Jacob lets it run for about thirty seconds, then starts clicking through, not trying to see if Pratt is involved. He’s not. And Jacob finally closes out the tab. 

—

Jacob is half-asleep, when he hears buzzing at the edges of his consciousness. Zzz, zzz! Somewhere close. In the room with him. He nearly drifts back off, until it’s there again, zzz! Demanding his attention.

Rolling over, he stretches his arm off the side of the bed, finding his discarded jeans in a heap on the the floor. His phone is in the front pocket. He forgot to plug it in before stripping to get into the shower last night. Fuck, he doesn’t want to go back out to the living room.

As he fumbles with the phone, the screen lights up again. Messages, from a number that hasn’t been programmed in. Staci Pratt’s number.

Squinting at the too-bright screen, he swipes his phone open, meaning to just dismiss the messages, but he ends up reading them

_hey are you up?_  
maybe not….  
listen I realize maybe this is a bad idea but I’d like to see you  
I had fun  
I think you did too  
Caleb and Joey are both out tomorrow and I don’t work until 5 

Jacob doesn’t answer, his fingers too fat with sleep to type anything coherent. To even think things that make sense. Tomorrow, tomorrow is Saturday. He has the day off. 

Why is he even considering this? Jacob isn’t interested in men. He just ends up sleeping with them, sometimes. It’s not his fault Pratt is pretty and easily available, offering himself to a man he doesn’t know at all. Risky, stupid. And why the fuck is he texting now? Jacob remembers the morning he smelled of vodka. Maybe Pratt is drunk, looking for an easy hook-up, figured that Jacob might oblige. 

Fuck him.

—

There’s another text in the morning.

_they’ve left_

This is insanity. It’s forty-five minutes drive to 3737 this time of day. And that doesn’t even matter because Jacob isn’t about to make the same mistake twice. He doesn’t want to sleep with Staci Pratt.

But he also hasn’t fucked anyone since Pratt. Because finding someone willing to suck his dick and leave takes too much fucking effort. And he absolutely would return the favor, because hell if he doesn’t like licking a woman until she’s soaking wet, her thighs tight around his ears, heat thrumming through her core. But he doesn’t want the hassle that comes afterwards. He doesn’t want the risk that comes with sleeping next to another body. One that might talk to his.

Okay, so, maybe Pratt isn’t the worst idea. If anything, he’s only ever been adamant to get Jacob out of his apartment once he’s finished. And while it might not be the same as getting to bury himself between some woman’s legs, Pratt’s got soft skin and a nice ass, his hair is probably long enough for Jacob to get a good fistful while he sucks him off.

Jacob groans, throwing his arm over his eyes. Yeah, there are worse ideas.

He texts Pratt back _ok_ and nothing else, expecting a flurry of activity in return. He showered last night, so all he really needs to do is get dressed and drive. Should have breakfast first, but he’s not really hungry yet.

—

Pratt pulls open the door on the second knock, grabbing Jacob by the front of his worn-out tee and dragging him through the doorway. The door slams loudly behind Jacob’s back, rattling the frame.

“God,” Pratt smiles, “I hoped you would come.” He reaches up, pawing at the back of Jacob’s neck to drag him down so that their mouths crash together, too much teeth and not enough finesse. 

Jacob growls at the bite of pain when his lip gets trapped, clawing at Pratt’s marrow hips and starting to push him back into the living room. Keeping fistfuls of Jacob’s shirt in his white-knuckled grip, Pratt pulls him as hard as Jacob is pushing back, maneuvering towards the couch. Pratt tumbles backwards, trying to drag Jacob down so they’re sprawled across the couch.

The same couch from the video Jacob watched last night, of Pratt and his roommates performing friendly intimacy for all the internet to see. And fuck, does Pratt look _intimate_ for him now, his hair half-tied back, the rest of it loose around his neck, more on one side than the other. His brown skin blushed over his cheeks and down his neck. The ribbed sleeveless shirt he’s wearing is obscenely thin, his dark chest hair peeking out from the collar, but just as obvious under the fabric too. He hasn’t even bothered to put on pants, his still-soft cock just visible through the wide leg of his boxer shorts now that he’s laid out on his back.

“They won’t be back for hours,” Pratt promises, sliding his hands up underneath Jacob’s shirt. Surprisingly, he doesn’t flinch as his fingers brush over long-hardened scars, still-soft patches where Jacob’s skin stayed thin after the lashes had healed. He rucks Jacob’s shirt as far as his armpits, his gaze lingering where Jacob’s skin is mangled. But he doesn’t ask about it, just holds one palm flat against Jacob’s chest, breathing, “god, you’re so fucking hot.”

Jacob snickers at that. In that video, Pratt said he was shallow. And maybe he is, maybe his eyes are just bad. Because even in his youth, Jacob wasn’t much to look at. But he’s here to get his satisfaction, and so is Pratt. So it doesn’t really matter in the long run.

“Mmm,” Jacob ventures, because he was thinking about Pratt’s lips wrapped around his cock the whole drive over. “Suck me,” he presses another bruising kiss to Pratt’s mouth, this time letting himself bite at those lips, wanting them puffy, red, abused.

Pratt moans back into Jacob’s mouth, clawing at his chest and melting into the couch cushions. The funny little bucking of his hips gives him away as much as anything else, grinding his dick against Jacob’s leg like a bitch in heat. And fuck, if that enthusiasm doesn’t go straight to Jacob’s cock.

“Move, move, move,” Pratt pushes at Jacob’s chest so he’ll get off from on top of him. And as much as Jacob hates to lose the contact, his desire flares as Pratt sinks down to the floor, getting onto his knees.

Hurriedly, Pratt pulls the black elastic from his hair, letting brown curls fall down around his neck. Jacob almost tells him to leave it down, but before he can form the words, Pratt is already gathering his hair and tying it up high in a little knot at the top of his head.

Jacob sits back against the couch, spreading his feet so that Pratt can fit between them. Skilled hands work open Jacob’s fly, and he lifts up his hips so that Pratt can slide his pants down just far enough that his cock and balls are exposed to the open air.

Pratt whines appreciatively as he comes up higher on his knees, hovering over Jacob’s lap. He holds Jacob’s cock steady in one hand, as he leans over to suck the head into his mouth. And fuck, the pressure is perfect, Pratt’s mouth soft and wet, with a gentle lull that Jacob wouldn’t expect from the ferocious way Pratt kisses.

He doesn’t venture to take Jacob down to the base, wrapping part of Jacob’s cock in his fist and mostly working the first few inches with his mouth. But it doesn’t even matter because the suction that he manages is just on the edge of perfect, lips spread tight around Jacob’s cock, spit dripping from the corners of his mouth and dribbling down his hand. Jacob grabs at his hair, the bun at the top of his head coming a little loose. He doesn’t try to force Pratt to take more, but he holds him down a little bit until he sputters, throat constricting, then pulls off.

Sucking air back into his lungs, Pratt’s eyelashes flutter as he breathes in through his nose, out through his mouth. There are tears just at the corners of his eyes, but his lips turn up as well, smug and sure before descending again and running his tongue along the underside of Jacob’s cock. 

He looks obscene between Jacob’s legs, with messy hair and flushed skin, his cock tenting in his boxers and legs folded underneath him, smiling around the head of Jacob’s dick. Everywhere Jacob touches him is warm, running his hand down along Pratt’s hollowed cheeks, brushing against his neck.

Pratt pops off again, looking up at Jacob through dark lashes, his brown eyes blown wide, “I still want you to fuck me,” he says, giving Jacob another stroke. “Can ride you right here on the couch, if you’d like?”

Jacob groans, “Fuck, Peaches,” the pet name from their last encounter slipping out. Even though he knows Pratt’s name now, the endearment feels right, and while Pratt screws his face a little bit, he doesn’t tell Jacob to stop.

Letting go of Jacob’s dick, Pratt stands up, reaching for the back of his shirt and pulling it up and over his head. Pratt is slim and fit, with narrow hips and just enough definition to his chest to suggest that he works out with some frequency. He shoves his boxers down as well and Jacob gets the idea that he’s supposed to strip. Jacob shoves off his jeans before he realizes he’s still got his fucking shoes on. Once his shoes are off, he shucks his pants, leaves his shirt on.

Fully naked, Pratt shoves his hand between the couch cushions, pulling out two condoms and tossing one aside. “I got prepped while you were on your way over,” he explains. And Jacob almost regrets not getting to see Pratt work himself open on his fingers again. Quite the view, that was.

Pratt tears at the wrapper, then checks to make sure he has the condom the right way around before leaning over to roll it down Jacob’s dick. Satisfied with his handiwork, he starts to climb into Jacob’s lap, before Jacob gets a better idea.

Grabbing Pratt around his waist, he flips him onto the couch, landing on his back. Jacob slots his arms under Pratt knees and hoists them up, testing the limits of his flexibility and he rests Pratt’s calves against his chest, pushing forward until Pratt almost bends his half, his ass lifted up off the couch.

“Ohmygod,” Pratt pants, trying to claw at Jacob’s shoulders, his eyes wild already, and Jacob isn’t even inside him yet. There isn’t quite room on the couch for Jacob to fit both his legs, but dropping his outside foot to the floor gives him better leverage anyway.

Jacob rubs his cock along Pratt’s ass, letting it slip between his legs before using one hand to start guiding himself in. Pratt has prepared himself enough that Jacob slips in without much trouble, breaching the rim and slotting halfway in with a single stroke. Pratt lets out another groan, his eyes rolling back as he takes Jacob’s cock. Another breath, and Jacob pushes the rest of the way in until their hips are flush. Against his chest, he can feel Pratt’s legs shaking, trembling as Jacob just holds inside of him.

“You doing alright?” Jacob drawls, reaching out to touch Pratt’s warm cheek. As he draws his fingers against hot skin, Pratt’s eyes open, staring back at him.

“Yeah, you asshole,” Pratt wheezes, “why do you have to be so fucking big?”

Jacob grins at that, rolling his hips the smallest amount he can manage, “Hm, and here I thought that’s why you called me over.”

That seems to derail Pratt’s curses, instead he just mouths, “Move.” 

Jacob adopts a slow, steady pace. Rocking inside Pratt just enough to tease out delicious friction, Pratt tight around him like a vise. 

Pratt pants his name so prettily, “Jacob, Jacob, Jacob,” swallowing down other sounds Jacob wishes he could hear. Just the fringes are enough to make him desperate for more, the full bodied sound of Pratt’s pleasure ringing through the otherwise empty living room.

Because fuck, if he doesn’t feel it, the tight, constricting way they fit together, how good Pratt’s body slots against his. And Jacob wants to stay like this, despite the terror coiling around him. The knowledge that this isn’t something he’s supposed to want. That this isn’t who he is. It’s just something that he sometimes does. He’s going to get his rocks off and leave Pratt satisfied. He’s going to find his satisfaction. But that’s it. There isn’t anything that can be built between them. Jacob doesn’t have the right materials.

Pratt works his cock messily in one hand until his body spasms around Jacob’s cock, spilling over the front of Jacob’s shirt, Jacob thrusts into him a few more times before growling, “Wanna come on your face, hm, would you like that, Peaches?”

Underneath him, loose and satiated, Pratt moans and nods. Jacob pulls out quickly, before he comes too fast. Rolling off the condom, he repositions himself, straddling Pratt’s chest and working himself in his hand. Pratt snakes his hands around to grab hold of Jacob’s hips, yanking him closer to his face with a handful of Jacob’s ass. Jacob comes hard, looking down at Pratt’s face, coming in thick ropes over his cheeks and in his hair. He’s careful to try to not direct it into Pratt’s eyes, but god, does he look pretty covered in Jacob’s come.

Once he’s finished, Jacob feels a bit like an ass for having messed Pratt up so thoroughly. As hot as it was in the moment, it can’t be comfortable now, and Jacob is careful climbing off, looking for something Pratt can use to clean himself off. Jacob can’t figure out where Pratt tossed his shirt, but he finds his boxers, passing them to Pratt still sprawled out on the couch.

“Could you get me paper towels from the kitchen?” Pratt huffs, his voice a little hoarse, “don’t want it to drip if I stand up.”

Jacob grunts, not bothering with his pants and heading down the hall to the kitchen. There’s a roll of paper towels on the counter. He pulls off three, taking one and wetting it slightly. He keeps the other two dry. He should wipe himself down as well, but Pratt’s messier and it’s only polite to bring him what he needs.

Shoving the paper towels in Pratt’s direction, Jacob heads off again to the bathroom to at least clean off his cock. He realizes belatedly that he should have brought his pants, but after he wipes down, he figures that his dignity is the least of his problems at this point.

He looks at himself in the bathroom mirror, trying to straighten out his hair a little. It’s gone flat from sweat, slightly damp at the roots. Splashing water on his face does little to take the redness down, he’ll just have to wait for the flush to go away. 

God, he looks old.

The hand soap in the dispenser has been watered down, like they’re broke college kids instead of, what did John and Rachel call them? Microcelebrities. Living in a 3,800 dollar a month apartment. 

Jacob catches his breath and heads back to the living room, only to hear Pratt banging around in the kitchen instead. He’s using the kitchen sink to scrub the come off of his face and Jacob feels like an even bigger asshole until he remembers the apartment has more than one bathroom.

“Did you have breakfast?” Pratt asks, turning away from the sink, his voice quieter, hesitant. Like he’s scared of Jacob’s answer. Jacob should lie, say he ate, he has somewhere to be. But he doesn’t. It’s Saturday and now that he’s gotten off he’s starving.

“No.”

“Oh okay,” Pratt grabs his phone off the kitchen counter, poking around on it before holding it up for Jacob to see, “there are a couple of different breakfast places in the area. I like this one,” without even turning his phone around, Pratt taps at the screen, bringing up more information about the place he’s talking about.

Jacob goes tense at the suggestion. He needs to get out, now. Before Pratt ropes him into something he doesn’t want. He came to Pratt because he’s easier than the alternatives. And the whole idea of going somewhere not-to-fuck with him throws a wrench in that. 

“I don’t have anything to wear,” Jacob mumbles. And it’s true. His only shirt definitely has Pratt’s come on it, because he didn’t think ahead.

“Oh,” Pratt frowns I mean, “Caleb...never mind. You’re right.” He turns his phone back around, poking at it. “I can just order something and run downstairs to get it. It’s literally just on the other side of the street, hold on.” He doesn’t look up, even when he starts asking Jacob what he likes to eat. This place has a bit of everything, really.

Pratt’s still not wearing pants.

“Dunno,” Jacob tells him, not having another excuse to beg off breakfast now, “I’m not picky.” He’s really not. Though if Pratt’s tastes are anything like John’s, the food at this place is probably overly fussy from the start.

“Okay, I can go grab it in like ten minutes,” Pratt says, putting his phone back on the counter.

Jacob tells him he still has come in his hair, and Pratt’s eyes go wide before slipping off to the bathroom.

Ten minutes later Pratt emerges from the bathroom, only vaguely yelling that he’s going to grab their order, leaving Jacob alone in the apartment. Jacob feels strangely like he’s having an out of body experience. Standing in the middle of a still unfamiliar apartment in his socks and boxers and come-stained shirt. He could sit down on the couch. The couch where he’s now fucked Pratt a second time. But he just can’t get himself to respond. What the fuck is he doing?

Pratt gets back, a plastic bag stuffed with takeaway containers in one hand and what might be yesterday’s mail in the other. He just throws the mail onto the table near the door, where the roommates are already building a little fortress of useless junk mail.

“We can eat at the kitchen island,” Pratt says, his face still pinched and worried.

Yeah, because Jacob is acting normal too. This is all so fucking normal.

Pratt ordered him an omelet stuffed with ham and cheese and mushrooms. Jacob could have done without the mushrooms, but he did say he wasn’t picky. The hash browns on the side are crispy on the outside and fluffy inside and they’re honestly great. So even if this is one of those overly-priced trendy places, the food is at least good and filling.

Pratt smothers everything he’s eating in ketchup, but at least he doesn’t try to talk with his mouth full, letting Jacob eat without forcing him to try and make conversation. They don’t have anything to talk about, except Jacob knows from the YouTube video that Pratt loves his mom, that the little silver scar on his nose is from when he hit his face on a concrete barricade when he was 16, and took helicopter flying lessons. Importantly, Pratt doesn’t know that Jacob knows these things about him. So Jacob would just rather not talk at all.

When they’re both done, Pratt bins the containers and asks Jacob if he wants coffee? He promises again his roommates won’t be home until late. Maybe not even at all today. He has work at five, which is why he didn’t go with them. But otherwise, they could hang out, and Jacob doesn’t have to worry about anyone knowing, if Jacob doesn’t want.

Jacob should really start pre-planning his excuses. Because if he goes home, he’s just going to hang around his empty house all day. Maybe watch some television, answer texts from John. There’s nothing that immediately requires his attention, the only thing keeping him from staying is how much he actually wants to stay.

“I’m not gay,” which is a non sequitur if there ever was one. But it’s the best explanation he can offer Pratt.

But Pratt just smiles back at him, a little unsure, but kind of cocky, like he’s heard that one before, “Great, neither am I!”

“I’m not bisexual either,” Jacob huffs, running his fingers through his hair. “I’m not...this isn’t anything. Right?”

Pratt frowns at him, picking up one of the extra plastic forks from their breakfast, starting to bend one prong back before letting it snap forward. He keeps going down the line, “I hate to break this to you, we’ve uh, slept together twice now. In case you haven’t noticed. And I was pretty sure you were into it.”

“I….was,” Jacob admits, he doesn’t have to tell Pratt his entire sexual history here. “But I’m not interested in dating men.”

“Oh, cool,” Pratt says, and this time when he bends back one of the fork prongs, it snaps all the way off. He just drops it on the floor like it’s nothing. “Would you want to fuck again or is that off the table too?”

What is it that Pratt’s offering? Because Jacob is pretty certain from his erratic behavior, whatever plot he’s formulating, he’s not going to be able to follow through. 

Jacob swallows, “is it going to be complicated?”

“Nah,” Pratt drawls, false confidence in his voice, “I can do no-strings-attached. Now that we’re clear.” He manages a smirk, “I’ve got to admit, I’d be disappointed if I didn’t get that dick again,” he laughs.

Jacob knows this is a catastrophe waiting to happen, but as Pratt gets up to show him out, he makes the mistake of looking at how Pratt’s jeans hug his ass, and Jacob knows he’s well and truly fucked.

—

Jacob, in fact, does spend the rest of the day watching television, trying not to move much at all. His left knee is sore from now he had it bent to fuck Pratt on the couch, and there’s a twinge in his back that is either from work or the aforementioned fucking. Still, he feels good, better than before he went to see Pratt. Now that the anxiety has faded. The sex undoubtedly helped. Even if the circumstances are still less than ideal. If Pratt can keep his end and not make this more complicated than it needs to be, this might be a pretty good deal. Though Jacob doesn’t know how frequently Pratt has the apartment to himself.

Five o’clock rolls around and Jacob thinks idly about Pratt at “work.” That means he’s broadcasting now, right? It’s actually seven after five and John said that Pratt worked on Twitch, not YouTube. Jacob can decently use YouTube on his own, so how hard could it be to find Pratt on this ‘Twitch?’

Then he gets the bright idea that just searching for Pratt’s name might be the easiest way to find him. He types in “Stacey Pratt” and google asks him if he means “Staci Pratt?” and he figures he probably does. The first link goes to “Twitch - S T A C I” but the one below it is the OUT100 2017. John showed both Joe and Jacob his photo in the print copy when the issue came out, where he was listed as JOHN SEED: LAWYER, ACTIVIST, though Jacob’s not entirely sure what “activism” John’s been doing. Jacob sort of suspects that John talked his way onto the list. Despite the blurb directly below identifying John as bisexual, Joe had been willfully obtuse as always, commenting that John should be very happy to have his accomplishments recognized.

Jacob clicks on the OUT link, which takes him directly to a picture of Hudson, Nylander, and Pratt. All three dressed in flannels and jeans, deliberately made up to look like rural bumpkins, but they’re posed like models, Hudson sort of draped across the frame in between Nylander in the back and Pratt in the foreground. They all look strange with their weirdly serious expressions. Below, they are listed as CALEB NYLANDER, JOEY HUDSON, & STACI PRATT: SOCIAL MEDIA PERSONALITIES. The text explains them as a group of childhood friends from rural Hope County, Montana, highlighting Nylander’s huge YouTube fan base, Hudson’s work as a social commentator and author of fiction and non-fiction, and Pratt’s popularity in an online gaming sphere dominated by straight men. It explains how the three have moved to Atlanta, and Nylander documents their lives as they adjust to the city, navigate relationships, and rely on each other as found family.

The piece doesn’t really tell Jacob anything he doesn’t know already. But despite how artificial the three of them look in the photograph, it’s a nice shot. And John is right, they are all attractive, the aid of a professional stylist and photographer only enhances what they already have in good looks.

Jacob goes back in his browser, clicking on Pratt’s Twitch page instead. It takes a second for the page to load in, and when it does, Jacob is completely overwhelmed by everything happening on the screen at once. On the right side, text flies by faster than he can read and there’s a commercial for Ford sedans playing in the center. The volume on his laptop is off at least, so he can turn it up a little for himself until it seems right. The commercial finishes playing and the screen goes dark for a second, before flashing back on.

If Jacob thought there was too much on the screen before, once the commercial ends he revises his statement. Because now there is definitely too much happening. Most of the video is taken up by what looks like it might be a darkened room, though there is a light source in the distance. In the foreground is what vaguely resembles the side view of a sniper rifle, but a model Jacob has never used. It’s not entirely inaccurate, but it’s obviously not real.

In the upper left hand corner is a more brightly illuminated view of Pratt’s face, his headset on, biting his lip, “hold on, hold on,” he says “give me one fucking second, Wheaty, fuck.”

“It’s not my fault you’re old and slow, Pratt,” a disembodied male voice retorts. Followed by a woman laughing.

Jacob watches for awhile. When Pratt lines up his shot, he bites his bottom lip. The visuals on screen transition to a scope when he aims, sharper and clearer at a much further distance than is realistically possible.

From what Jacob can tell, Pratt’s team wins the match. He’s playing on a team of four, this Wheaty kid, a woman named Grace, and a fourth member named “Eli” who never says anything but the other three speak to as if he’s listening in. 

While they wait for their next round, Pratt reads off from the chat window, talking to his audience. Jacob has no idea how he manages because the text is moving so fast. It speeds up once Pratt starts talking his audience.

“You look happy today,” he reads, then laughs, “oh, do I? I guess I’m feeling pretty good,” back to reading, “Yeah you looked upset for awhile now...I guess I just had a rough couple of weeks. But things are looking up, I promise.” He looks into the camera and smiles, “Caleb and Joey are out today so I’ve got the place to myself…it’s kind of lonely though. I’m used to having people around.”

Jacob gets this weird sort of feeling that Pratt is taking to directly to him, despite how disjointed Pratt’s train of thought really is. It must be a skill, to get people to think that they’re talking directly to you through the screen. And it’s so fucking weird because Jacob was in the room with Pratt just this morning and he felt really far away after they finished fucking. But maybe, probably, that’s Jacob’s fault.

“Did you get laid?” Pratt reads, “What would make you think thaaaat? Hold on the round is starting.”

Wheaty is already talking a mile a minute when Pratt enters the next round.


End file.
